Satin & Silk
by stmattthew
Summary: Everyone has a weakness. (HS)


Title: Satin & Silk

Pairing: H/S

---

He had a particular weakness for sumptuous fabrics. Smooth satin, cool silk, fine cotton, smooth velvet, spun wool, combed mohair, brushed leather - anything. Other men wanted gadgets and cars. He had no need for such things - his job provided him with both. He wanted the finest suits, the most luxurious upholstery, the most extravagant linens. It was his one true fetish - guaranteed to drive him positively mad.

Not that any of his coworkers were aware of his particular vice. Granted, he always looked like a fashion show, despite the fact that he was usually handling the muck and dregs of the underside of Miami. But he was the boss, so he might simply have been trying to put forth a professional image.

Right.

At any rate, Horatio Caine had his one secret joy in life, and he was quite content to enjoy it quietly.

Until the day Tim Speedle showed up in that come-get-me-red satin button down.

It was all Horatio could do not to yank the shirt from the young man's body, right there, in the middle of the crime scene. There was something alluring about the way the sunlight glinted off the shiny material, something so incredibly inviting.

So fucking _sexy_.

He'd managed to get through that day by the skin of his teeth, throwing himself into any and every aspect of the case that did _not_ require Speedle's presence. Not a simple task, by any stretch of the imagination, but he managed.

Over the next several days, Horatio managed to forget about the beautiful satin shirt. Tim came to work in his usual tatters, rumpled and unconcerned. And then that damned shirt made an encore.

To make matters worse, Speedle brushed right up against him, slid that gorgeous shirt right along Horatio's bare hand. Speedle's face was oh-so-innocent, that carefully calculated look of dispassionate disinterest. As if he was only interested in some piece of evidence on the other side of the room.

The feeling of smooth satin covering a warm, strong body sent chills up Horatio's spine. He dropped the file he'd been carrying, and shuddered, trying to regain his composure.

Speedle turned at the sound of papers shuffling to the floor, and came forward to help collect them. His hair curled at the base of his neck, over the collar, a beautiful contrast of near-black silk and blood-red satin.

When he finished gathering the sheets, Speedle looked up at a still dazed Horatio, a puzzled frown drawing his dark, thick brows together. "You alright, H?"

Horatio licked his lips in an unsuccessful attempt to bring moisture to his mouth. "That is a beautiful shirt," he croaked.

"Uhhh... thanks..." Speedle got to his feet and held the papers out. "Here."

Horatio ignored the offered sheets, instead reaching for one of the cuffs. He paused, scant millimeters from Speedle's hand. "May I?"

When Speedle didn't respond, Horatio allowed his fingertips to glide over the smooth, fine fabric. He slid his hand slowly up the sleeve, bringing his palm down to fully experience the slick touch. "Dear God," he murmured.

"Um... H... you know this is weird, right?"

Horatio snapped his head up, to see the skeptical expression on Speedle's face. "Er... did I say that out loud?" Speedle nodded, expression unchanged. Horatio bit his lip and jerked his hand away, resting it on his own hip. "Sorry about that. Don't know what came over me..." Dipping his head low, Horatio turned and walked away, before he embarrassed himself further.

Horatio hid behind his desk for the rest of the day, snapping at anyone who dared venture into his office. He shuffled papers around and tried to tell himself that he was catching up on old paperwork, when he knew perfectly well that he was just hiding from his latest obsession.

After a while, he gave up and headed for the locker room to collect his things and leave. Upon entering the room, he was surprised to note that someone was actually using the shower. He was even more surprised to see the clothes laid out on a nearby bench. A pair of not-quite-threadbare jeans, a plain white t-shirt - and a beautiful silky-satin red button-down. Horatio paused in front of the sight and wondered how much longer Tim would be in the shower. He forced himself to walk away from the clothes, and retrieve his handful of items from his own locker. He turned and headed for the door, but that damned shirt called him back. He hesitated for the briefest moment, then reached out and snagged it. _I'll bring it right back._ He balled it up and tucked it inside his jacket, under one arm, then hustled out of the building.

---

He didn't let go of his contraband until he was several miles away from the police station. He laid the shirt out on the seat next to him at the next red light, gently rubbing out any creases in the fabric. He jumped a mile at the bleat of a horn, and glanced up at the green light. He peeled away from the intersection, and ran every yellow light so he wouldn't risk distraction behind the wheel again.

He got home in record time, grabbed the beautiful shirt, and fumbled with the seatbelt, the car door, the keys, and the front door in his haste to get somewhere private with it. After ten exasperating minutes, Horatio was alone with the lovely shirt. He took it to the living room, spread the shirt out on the floor, lay down next to it, and placed his check on the smooth fabric. He nuzzled it, and wondered how much better it would feel if there were a flesh and blood man in the shirt instead of having to settle for the cold, hard floor.

An image came to him unbidden, an image of pale, smooth skin, silken black hair, and this exquisite shirt hanging off the shoulders, exposing that beautiful skin. Damp, sticky skin, slicked down with sweat and other things. Salty-sweet skin, and that smell...

The doorbell interrupted Horatio's reverie. He thought of ignoring it, but the person waiting at his door was persistent, jamming the bell repeatedly and pounding on the door with a fist. Horatio grumbled and went to answer it. "Yes, ye- oh."

Tim Speedle stood at his doorstep, mildly miffed. "You know, they'll sell you one of those, too." His hair was still wet, and the t-shirt stuck to his damp torso. "I'd kinda like mine back, and I didn't think it would look too good for either of us if I filed a police report."

Horatio felt the heat rise in his face and ears, and wondered how much his hair clashed with his embarrassment. "I... um... Speed! Hi. You wanna have a cup of coffee?" He moved to one side to let Speed in.

"Did you hear me? I want my shirt back, H."

"I did hear you, and I'm inviting you in for coffee. Or something else to drink if that's not your speed. No pun intended." Horatio felt the corner of his mouth quirk up, and hoped that Speed would find it charming. He must have, because the young man rolled his eyes and crossed the threshold with a flop of his hands.

Horatio breathed a sigh of relief, and gestured towards the kitchen, away from the shirt laid out on the floor. Speed stalked towards the kitchen, blind for the moment. "Nice place," he muttered, looking around.

Horatio grunted his thanks, and set about the task of entertaining. "Hungry?"

"No, I just..." Speed trailed off as he turned towards the living room, seeing the object of his visit for the first time. "Uh... Horatio...? _Why_ is my shirt on the floor?"

Horatio gave up all pretense of concerned host, grabbed Speed's arm and whirled the surprised man to face him. "It's satin. Real, one hundred percent, soft, smooth, delicious satin. It... I..." He licked his lips lasciviously and, without meaning to, pulled the younger man in closer. "It smells like you."

It was Speed's turn to give a crooked half-smile. "Well, hell, if that was all it took, I'd have let you steal my shirt a long time ago." Speed disentangled himself from Horatio's embrace, jogged over to claim his prize, and headed for the door. "See you in the morning, H." Speed paused in the open doorway. "Unless, of course, you got a better idea."

Horatio dipped his head, peeking out through a fringe of lashes. "My sheets are silk."

The shirt fell to the floor, forgotten.

Fin

© 2004 Rosalinda StMatthew


End file.
